Notching the Belt, part 1/2
Title: Notching the Belt
Rating: NC 17
Genre/Pairing: Mentions of Jess/Sam, eventual Sam/Dean. Kind of Dean/Pie. AU for season 1. AU because incest, and pudgy!Dean ;)
Summary: "If sometimes, in bed by himself at night, or tucked away in the huge, private bathroom he’d found in the basement of the Stanford Law Department, Sam's thoughts had wandered to Dean’s body, and he’d wondered how it might be changing while he wasn’t there to watch it - well, that’s only because he knew that most of the changes would be new scars, new injuries, and he was worried. It was just worry."
Warnings: First-time incest. Ridiculousness.
A/N: Long-time slash reader, first-time slash writer. I've seen a few pudgy!Dean or pudgy!Jensen fics, and I gotta say, they hit some buttons I didn't even know I had. (No, not that one. I knew I had that one). I wanted to read more, but couldn't find more, so I thought I'd write my own, and, voila. I do hope you like it.
Sam realized pretty early on that the Winchester men seem to have been blessed with an unearthly metabolism. Despite a steady diet of grease, sugar, booze and caffeine, the three of them - he, Dean, and his father - have always skirted the line of being too thin rather than the other way around, due in part to constant training, but also just ‘cause of good genes. There were a couple years there, namely between the ages of eleven and thirteen, that Sam had looked down at himself and thought with anguished pre-teen certainty that he was going to be the big obese anomaly, but it turns out his body was just gearing itself up to hit six foot two by his senior year of high school, then shoot three more inches while he was at Stanford.
But his Dad’s always been fit as hell, and Dean - well, 99% of Dean’s daily calories may come straight from bacon fat, but his brother’s always kind of had the body of a young god. Not that Sam was looking, but when you grow up in such close quarters, you can’t help but see. And Dean had been just about perfect starting from age twelve, when he first tugged his shirt up to show an eight year-old Sam his six-pack.
“Okay,” Sam had said dubiously, poking his brother’s hard stomach with hesitant interest. “Cool. What’s it for?”
Dean had looked confused for a moment, then said, pulling down his shirt, “Killing monsters? And girls.”
“You’re gonna kill girls?”
“No, Dunkin’ No-nuts. I’m gonna get girls. Girls like this stuff.”
“Okay,” Sam had said again, even more skeptical, because girls? Ew.
But he’d remembered that moment years later, after he’d faced down a different kind of six-pack, plus three shots of Jack and the Cosmo Jess couldn’t finish.
“God,” Jess had moaned, licking a stripe from his sternum all the way down to his cock and across his shaft. “Your fucking stomach.”
Sam had stuttered out a “What?”, because his mind was most definitely not on his stomach at the moment.
“I have never-” and she paused to bite down on the muscle right above his pubic bone “-seen a stomach-” tongue darting in and out of his bellybutton in a way that made Sam thrust upwards uncontrollably “-as hard as yours before.”
Then she’d grabbed him and pulled once, twice, a flick of the wrist and Sam was shooting all over her hand and his stomach, eyes screwed shut, picturing, bizarrely, his twelve year old brother’s bare chest and above it, sparkling green eyes.
Kind of an inappropriate place to dwell on childhood memories, okay, but Sam didn’t want to think to hard about that. This was during his second year of Stanford, when he was trying not to ever think about his family at all.
And if sometimes, in bed by himself at night, or tucked away in the huge, private bathroom he’d found in the basement of the Stanford Law Department, his thoughts had wandered to Dean’s body, and he’d wondered how it might be changing while he wasn’t there to watch it - that’s only because he knew that most of the changes would be new scars, new injuries, and he was worried. Worried that claws may have found their way across his brother’s perfectly freckled shoulder, or a knife may have marred the smooth, rippling skin of his abdomen, or a spray of buckshot patterned itself down Dean’s endless, lickable back…
Yeah, it was worry that made him think these things as he came with a little gasp and a delicious shudder. Worry.
But anyway, all this is to say that the Winchesters have a great metabolism, and that was one of the reasons Sam had trouble putting his finger on what was different about his brother when he saw him again after nearly three years.
For the first few weeks, Sam was too fucked-up with grief and shock and anger to even look at his brother properly, but after a month or so his hot pain turned very cold and clear, and he was able, for the first time, to pick up his head and really examine Dean.
There were new scars, as Sam knew there would be: a silver hook bisecting his right eyebrow; a thread-fine sliver that pulled at the corner of his soft bottom lip; a mess of burn tissue on his lower back, and a badly-healed stab would on Dean’s left shoulder.
But it wasn’t the scars that had Sam squinting, trying to figure out why his brother didn’t look quite the same. And it wasn’t the slight wrinkles in the corners of his eyes - though Sam noticed those, too, and was it possible that the crows-feet made Dean even better-looking than before? And were his eyes greener? Maybe it was the way his hair was tipped in gold from the summer sun - maybe Sam had just forgotten things like the color of his brother’s hair and eyes, forgotten the way he freckled in the heat.
But, no, that wasn’t it. It was something else. Something he doesn’t realize ‘til they’re in a diner in Bemidji, MN, after Dean’s devoured a double bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, half of Sam’s French fries, a vanilla milkshake, and two pieces of cherry pie. Dean closes his eyes contentedly, raises his arms above his head, does his standard sated Dean-stretch, worn t-shirt riding up just a little… and Sam’s eyes go, as they invariably do, to that little strip of skin between Dean’s jeans and the hem of his shirt - and all of a sudden Sam realizes exactly what is different.
Dean’s gained weight.
Not a lot, but enough that Sam notices. His face just a bit fuller, the softness under his jaw just a little softer, his ass filling out his jeans more, his stomach just a tiny bit rounded. He’s still thin, and muscular, and to anyone else he’d look like a fit, trim dude - but Sam’s Dean-trained eye can notice what others can’t.
And now that he’s noticed, he wants to see.
He hasn’t gotten a good, long look at his brother in a good, long time, but now he’s determined. He just wants to see how Dean has changed since Sam was away. Dean won’t talk much about “the lost years,” as Sam dubs them in his head, no matter how many leading questions Sam asks. So this reconnaissance of his brother’s body is born of Sam’s desperate need to know about Dean, to know what the years had done to him, to know how he’s the same and how he’s different - and if Dean won’t give him anything to go on emotionally, well, then, he’ll look for the physical. That, at least, is something.
So Sam finds himself lying in wait for Dean to come out of the bathroom after showers, sneaking looks before his brother pulls a t-shirt down over himself. It’s frustrating, this, and Sam wishes he could just strip Dean naked and stare. Which sounds fucked-up when it’s put that way, but no, it’s not like that. Not like that at all.
The thing is, it looks really good on his brother, Sam thinks. That tiny bit of extra weight on his face just serves to emphasize his long eyelashes and jade eyes, brings out the perfect bow of his pink mouth. And the miniscule amount of padding around Dean’s waist and belly just makes him look that tiniest bit softer, easier. Because Dean is a lot of things, but soft has never been one of them. And seeing Dean like this - softened - well, Sam just thinks it looks good.
He can’t help thinking that it would look better if Dean were even softer.
He finds himself ordering food he knows he won’t eat, because he knows Dean will eat it, instead: extra orders of fries, too much pie, ice-cream sundaes he doesn’t want, side orders of mashed potatoes and macaroni & cheese and onion rings, hell, anything cooked in butter or covered in cheese, he orders it, then pushes it to the side groaning that he’s full, can’t eat another bite.
And Dean always, always, always finishes everything. Happily cleans every plate on the table, sighs in pleasure around the last bite of cheesecake, hollows his cheeks around the straw of Sam’s untouched super-size milkshake.
Sam can’t help but watch.
Sam takes to buying inordinate amounts of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups when they stop in gas stations, because he knows his brother can’t resist them, and he casually puts them by the clutch, where Dean can reach down and help himself whenever. And he does, absentmindedly goes through as many packs of Reese’s as Sam puts down, and boxes of Oreos, too, and economy-sized bags of potato chips, and Hostess Cupcakes.
Sam watches that, too.
Watches Dean puff out a sigh as he finishes the Big Mac that Sam so thoughtfully picked up (though they’d just finished lunch), watches him run an absentminded thumb around the waistband of his jeans, wincing slightly as he tries to find a comfortable position. His belly strains just a bit tighter than usual against the cotton of his t-shirt, and Sam swallows, tries to look away as Dean tugs the fabric away from his stomach.
-...-
“Dude,” Dean says in Arlington, MA, flings a heap of denim at Sam’s head where he’s reading on the bed. “Fuck you. You fuckin’ shrank another pair of my jeans.”
“What?” Sam asks, pulls the jeans off his face and flings them back. “Fuck you, dude. I did not.”
“I swear to god,” Dean says, leveraging an accusatory emerald glare at him. “I’m not lettin’ you near my laundry ever again.”
He leans down to pick the jeans up, muttering something about shitty fuckin’ housewives, and Sam just rolls his eyes, gives Dean the finger, then pretends to go back to his book.
But really he watches as Dean buttons himself back into the too-tight jeans, pulls the belt around his waist and look at it thoughtfully for a moment before buckling it - a few notches looser - with a dismissive shrug. Clueless.
But Sam’s snort gets lost in a swallow, because at that moment Dean pulls up his shirt to get his belt done, and Sam gets a glimpse of smooth, tanned skin, the late afternoon sun glinting off the blonde hairs that travel down from Dean’s bellybutton, riding the curve of his stomach where it pushes just a little bit over the waistband of his boxers, disappearing down into the shadows of…
Sam blinks once, and tries to focus on the words of his book.
It’s funny, though, because he can’t for the life of him remember what the fuck he was reading.
Funny.
PART TWO.
Rating: NC 17
Genre/Pairing: Mentions of Jess/Sam, eventual Sam/Dean. Kind of Dean/Pie. AU for season 1. AU because incest, and pudgy!Dean ;)
Summary: "If sometimes, in bed by himself at night, or tucked away in the huge, private bathroom he’d found in the basement of the Stanford Law Department, Sam's thoughts had wandered to Dean’s body, and he’d wondered how it might be changing while he wasn’t there to watch it - well, that’s only because he knew that most of the changes would be new scars, new injuries, and he was worried. It was just worry."
Warnings: First-time incest. Ridiculousness.
A/N: Long-time slash reader, first-time slash writer. I've seen a few pudgy!Dean or pudgy!Jensen fics, and I gotta say, they hit some buttons I didn't even know I had. (No, not that one. I knew I had that one). I wanted to read more, but couldn't find more, so I thought I'd write my own, and, voila. I do hope you like it.
Sam realized pretty early on that the Winchester men seem to have been blessed with an unearthly metabolism. Despite a steady diet of grease, sugar, booze and caffeine, the three of them - he, Dean, and his father - have always skirted the line of being too thin rather than the other way around, due in part to constant training, but also just ‘cause of good genes. There were a couple years there, namely between the ages of eleven and thirteen, that Sam had looked down at himself and thought with anguished pre-teen certainty that he was going to be the big obese anomaly, but it turns out his body was just gearing itself up to hit six foot two by his senior year of high school, then shoot three more inches while he was at Stanford.
But his Dad’s always been fit as hell, and Dean - well, 99% of Dean’s daily calories may come straight from bacon fat, but his brother’s always kind of had the body of a young god. Not that Sam was looking, but when you grow up in such close quarters, you can’t help but see. And Dean had been just about perfect starting from age twelve, when he first tugged his shirt up to show an eight year-old Sam his six-pack.
“Okay,” Sam had said dubiously, poking his brother’s hard stomach with hesitant interest. “Cool. What’s it for?”
Dean had looked confused for a moment, then said, pulling down his shirt, “Killing monsters? And girls.”
“You’re gonna kill girls?”
“No, Dunkin’ No-nuts. I’m gonna get girls. Girls like this stuff.”
“Okay,” Sam had said again, even more skeptical, because girls? Ew.
But he’d remembered that moment years later, after he’d faced down a different kind of six-pack, plus three shots of Jack and the Cosmo Jess couldn’t finish.
“God,” Jess had moaned, licking a stripe from his sternum all the way down to his cock and across his shaft. “Your fucking stomach.”
Sam had stuttered out a “What?”, because his mind was most definitely not on his stomach at the moment.
“I have never-” and she paused to bite down on the muscle right above his pubic bone “-seen a stomach-” tongue darting in and out of his bellybutton in a way that made Sam thrust upwards uncontrollably “-as hard as yours before.”
Then she’d grabbed him and pulled once, twice, a flick of the wrist and Sam was shooting all over her hand and his stomach, eyes screwed shut, picturing, bizarrely, his twelve year old brother’s bare chest and above it, sparkling green eyes.
Kind of an inappropriate place to dwell on childhood memories, okay, but Sam didn’t want to think to hard about that. This was during his second year of Stanford, when he was trying not to ever think about his family at all.
And if sometimes, in bed by himself at night, or tucked away in the huge, private bathroom he’d found in the basement of the Stanford Law Department, his thoughts had wandered to Dean’s body, and he’d wondered how it might be changing while he wasn’t there to watch it - that’s only because he knew that most of the changes would be new scars, new injuries, and he was worried. Worried that claws may have found their way across his brother’s perfectly freckled shoulder, or a knife may have marred the smooth, rippling skin of his abdomen, or a spray of buckshot patterned itself down Dean’s endless, lickable back…
Yeah, it was worry that made him think these things as he came with a little gasp and a delicious shudder. Worry.
But anyway, all this is to say that the Winchesters have a great metabolism, and that was one of the reasons Sam had trouble putting his finger on what was different about his brother when he saw him again after nearly three years.
For the first few weeks, Sam was too fucked-up with grief and shock and anger to even look at his brother properly, but after a month or so his hot pain turned very cold and clear, and he was able, for the first time, to pick up his head and really examine Dean.
There were new scars, as Sam knew there would be: a silver hook bisecting his right eyebrow; a thread-fine sliver that pulled at the corner of his soft bottom lip; a mess of burn tissue on his lower back, and a badly-healed stab would on Dean’s left shoulder.
But it wasn’t the scars that had Sam squinting, trying to figure out why his brother didn’t look quite the same. And it wasn’t the slight wrinkles in the corners of his eyes - though Sam noticed those, too, and was it possible that the crows-feet made Dean even better-looking than before? And were his eyes greener? Maybe it was the way his hair was tipped in gold from the summer sun - maybe Sam had just forgotten things like the color of his brother’s hair and eyes, forgotten the way he freckled in the heat.
But, no, that wasn’t it. It was something else. Something he doesn’t realize ‘til they’re in a diner in Bemidji, MN, after Dean’s devoured a double bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, half of Sam’s French fries, a vanilla milkshake, and two pieces of cherry pie. Dean closes his eyes contentedly, raises his arms above his head, does his standard sated Dean-stretch, worn t-shirt riding up just a little… and Sam’s eyes go, as they invariably do, to that little strip of skin between Dean’s jeans and the hem of his shirt - and all of a sudden Sam realizes exactly what is different.
Dean’s gained weight.
Not a lot, but enough that Sam notices. His face just a bit fuller, the softness under his jaw just a little softer, his ass filling out his jeans more, his stomach just a tiny bit rounded. He’s still thin, and muscular, and to anyone else he’d look like a fit, trim dude - but Sam’s Dean-trained eye can notice what others can’t.
And now that he’s noticed, he wants to see.
He hasn’t gotten a good, long look at his brother in a good, long time, but now he’s determined. He just wants to see how Dean has changed since Sam was away. Dean won’t talk much about “the lost years,” as Sam dubs them in his head, no matter how many leading questions Sam asks. So this reconnaissance of his brother’s body is born of Sam’s desperate need to know about Dean, to know what the years had done to him, to know how he’s the same and how he’s different - and if Dean won’t give him anything to go on emotionally, well, then, he’ll look for the physical. That, at least, is something.
So Sam finds himself lying in wait for Dean to come out of the bathroom after showers, sneaking looks before his brother pulls a t-shirt down over himself. It’s frustrating, this, and Sam wishes he could just strip Dean naked and stare. Which sounds fucked-up when it’s put that way, but no, it’s not like that. Not like that at all.
The thing is, it looks really good on his brother, Sam thinks. That tiny bit of extra weight on his face just serves to emphasize his long eyelashes and jade eyes, brings out the perfect bow of his pink mouth. And the miniscule amount of padding around Dean’s waist and belly just makes him look that tiniest bit softer, easier. Because Dean is a lot of things, but soft has never been one of them. And seeing Dean like this - softened - well, Sam just thinks it looks good.
He can’t help thinking that it would look better if Dean were even softer.
He finds himself ordering food he knows he won’t eat, because he knows Dean will eat it, instead: extra orders of fries, too much pie, ice-cream sundaes he doesn’t want, side orders of mashed potatoes and macaroni & cheese and onion rings, hell, anything cooked in butter or covered in cheese, he orders it, then pushes it to the side groaning that he’s full, can’t eat another bite.
And Dean always, always, always finishes everything. Happily cleans every plate on the table, sighs in pleasure around the last bite of cheesecake, hollows his cheeks around the straw of Sam’s untouched super-size milkshake.
Sam can’t help but watch.
Sam takes to buying inordinate amounts of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups when they stop in gas stations, because he knows his brother can’t resist them, and he casually puts them by the clutch, where Dean can reach down and help himself whenever. And he does, absentmindedly goes through as many packs of Reese’s as Sam puts down, and boxes of Oreos, too, and economy-sized bags of potato chips, and Hostess Cupcakes.
Sam watches that, too.
Watches Dean puff out a sigh as he finishes the Big Mac that Sam so thoughtfully picked up (though they’d just finished lunch), watches him run an absentminded thumb around the waistband of his jeans, wincing slightly as he tries to find a comfortable position. His belly strains just a bit tighter than usual against the cotton of his t-shirt, and Sam swallows, tries to look away as Dean tugs the fabric away from his stomach.
-...-
“Dude,” Dean says in Arlington, MA, flings a heap of denim at Sam’s head where he’s reading on the bed. “Fuck you. You fuckin’ shrank another pair of my jeans.”
“What?” Sam asks, pulls the jeans off his face and flings them back. “Fuck you, dude. I did not.”
“I swear to god,” Dean says, leveraging an accusatory emerald glare at him. “I’m not lettin’ you near my laundry ever again.”
He leans down to pick the jeans up, muttering something about shitty fuckin’ housewives, and Sam just rolls his eyes, gives Dean the finger, then pretends to go back to his book.
But really he watches as Dean buttons himself back into the too-tight jeans, pulls the belt around his waist and look at it thoughtfully for a moment before buckling it - a few notches looser - with a dismissive shrug. Clueless.
But Sam’s snort gets lost in a swallow, because at that moment Dean pulls up his shirt to get his belt done, and Sam gets a glimpse of smooth, tanned skin, the late afternoon sun glinting off the blonde hairs that travel down from Dean’s bellybutton, riding the curve of his stomach where it pushes just a little bit over the waistband of his boxers, disappearing down into the shadows of…
Sam blinks once, and tries to focus on the words of his book.
It’s funny, though, because he can’t for the life of him remember what the fuck he was reading.
Funny.
PART TWO.